Page 10 of Miss Dashing
“That is nobody’s business. I wish you good morning. If you’d like to ride out again the day after tomorrow, I’ll acquaint you with some of the dramatis personae.”
He’d offended her, and that dimmed the very sun in the heavens. “Miss Brompton, I apologize. I meant no insult.”
“Until the day after tomorrow, my lord. Good day.”
She cantered off, her groom trailing a respectful half-dozen yards behind, and Phillip resisted the urge to call after her.
A pointless display, of course. Some varieties of loneliness admitted of no comfort, and it broke his heart that Miss Hecate Brompton suffered at least one of them.
ChapterThree
“A spare hiding in the shires.” Miss Betty Blanchard checked the strength of the tea. “How marvelous. One doesn’t envy Lord Phillip his patrimony, but the brother seemed a decent sort.”
The tea would be weak, no matter how generously Hecate had seen Miss Blanchard pensioned. “You know Lord Tavistock?”
“I’ve had occasion to observe him when he first abandoned university. Companions do a lot of observing and comparing notes on what we observe. Now tell me about this house party.”
How Hecate longed to pace, but Miss Blanchard’s parlor would allow for about three steps in any direction. And on three out of four walls, Hecate would be confronted with sketches of herself as a girl, then as a young woman. The fourth wall was reserved for Miss Blanchard’s regiment of nieces and nephews.
“If I’m to believe Eglantine,” Hecate said, “Charles was the inspiration for this disaster. He treated Lord Phillip’s sister-by-marriage ill when she made her come out, and I suppose Charles is trying to ingratiate himself with Lord Tavistock. If her ladyship ever gets to dredging up bad memories, Lord Phillip will be on hand to report that Brompton really isn’t a bad sort, and the family is very congenial.”
“Charles all but left Miss DeWitt standing at the altar.” Miss Blanchard poured two cups and stirred a drop of milk into Hecate’s. “She was better off without him, but then Charles became old Nunn’s heir, and I’m sure the lady knew a pang of envy.”
Hecate sipped to be polite, but nursery tea would have offered more sustenance. “Her mother and grandmother doubtless harangued her with if-onlys and why-couldn’t-yous?”
“If Miss DeWitt had a chorus of only two to sing those laments, then she had it a good deal easier than you did, my dear. I gather you are to attend along with Lord Phillip?”
“Even Edna Brompton wouldn’t expect me to pay for a house party in absentia. His lordship refuses to attend unless I’m on hand.”
“Shrewd of him. Would you like me to have a look at the guest list?”
How Betty Blanchard, retired companion living out her years on a quiet lane in Chelsea, knew Society’s goings-on, Hecate did not care to speculate. On the one hand, Miss Blanchard’s information was useful when Hecate faced yet another London Season. On the other hand, why did Miss Blanchard bother? Why remain attached to a world that hadn’t treated her all that well?
“This is my first crack,” Hecate said, extracting a list from her reticule. “If Charles is to have his merry widows, then I’ve recruited some bachelor uncles to partner them at whist.”
“And a half dozen of the titled cousins. Edna doubtless hopes to snabble Lord Phillip for Flavia or Portia. Is Lord Phillip frivolous?”
“One look at him, and you’d know the term could never apply.”
Miss Blanchard perused the list. “Dour, then?”
Lord Phillip had an off-putting quality that made Hecate uncomfortable, even though she understood it.
“Reserved,” she said. “Brusque. No need to announce himself with horn blasts and fluttering doves. He’ll lurk by the potted palms and manage to look perfectly content doing it.”
Unlike Hecate in her years among the ballroom greenery.
“Doesn’t take after his father, then. The old marquess was full of his own consequence. His poor wife was entirely cowed. I wonder if Lord Phillip wasn’t a little rebellion on the part of the late marchioness.”
All of Society would wonder the same thing, if they hadn’t already. “He claims not to know, and I suspect he doesn’t care. Lord Phillip describes himself as a farmer, and he has a plowman’s physique and a yeoman’s interests.”
Miss Blanchard wrinkled her nose. “Clodhopping sort? Bull in a china shop? Lord knows you’ve stood up with plenty of those.”
“He doesn’t know how to dance, but I wouldn’t call him clodhopping. He will sit out every waltz until he can give a good account of himself on the dance floor.” And Hecate understood that too.
“How would you describe him, my dear?”
A puzzle Hecate had been considering for days—and nights. “Prudent enough to know that his rural ways need some polishing, smart enough to know Society will find fault even with perfection. He will make a reasonable, dedicated effort, then get back to his plowing and pamphlets.”
